


God, I Just Want to Lay Down

by glassarrow



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Elias Bouchard is a dick and Jon's had a Very long day, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Is this Entirely self-indulgent? Yes obviously, Jon is still Quite Injured and emotionally and physically exhausted, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Magnus Archives Season 3, and Martin is here to help, this is set in the immediate aftermath of MAG 92
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassarrow/pseuds/glassarrow
Summary: When too many people threaten your life in a single day, sometimes you just desperately need someone to help you with a bandage and tie your hair back. It's the little things in life.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 241





	God, I Just Want to Lay Down

**Author's Note:**

> **Fair Warning** there are no truly graphic descriptions of any of Jon's injuries, but I work as an sfx makeup artist, and I've been injured in similar ways myself, so the descriptions are fairly _specific._ Take care of yourself if that may be triggering for you.
> 
> Also Jon is just straight up not having a _good day_ , so his mental state isn't what I'd call healthy.
> 
> Title comes from _Stray Italian Greyhound_ by Vienna Teng because I've been listening to it non-stop for 4 days

Jon stumbled into his cramped office. Stifling the gasp as his bandaged hands knocked clumsily into the frame, he carefully closed the door, ignoring the way his shaking fingers rattled the knob slightly as he twisted it back into place. The room spun dizzily around him as he half walked, half collapsed into the waiting chair, elbows falling heavily onto the solid wood of his familiar desk.

It had only been a few months, but it felt like years since he’d last sat in this chair. He let his head fall into his uninjured hand, fingers gently running back and over his hair, only barely held back in a bun after the last few hours. The haphazard sprawl of papers and files seemed to be largely how he left them, though their own lack of dust was certainly less than reassuring. Jon could barely find it in himself to be bothered by this, bandaged fingers mindlessly reaching to trace the edges of the blessedly scabbing gash just below his jaw. Wincing slightly at the unpleasant stretching of the skin across his palm, he sighed and leaned down to rifle through his drawers. At least the first aid kit was still where he’d left it too, though after a brief struggle with the clasps, he was less than impressed with its stock. It really did seem to be perpetually running low nowadays.

Setting it carefully on top of one of the more stable piles of papers, he shook his head sharply, trying in vain to shift the hair that had come loose off his neck. Even that pulled unpleasantly, and with a small hiss of frustration, Jon reached up, gently pulling at the hairs that had found themselves stuck in the trip back to the Institute. He could feel the slightest damp trickle down his throat again, and he huffed a small, dry laugh, briefly closing his eyes, before reaching for the alcohol wipes.

He froze staring at the tiny, plastic-coated package in his hand. Looking dubiously from the slippery package to his bandaged fingers, he abruptly found he could no longer contain that dry, desperate laughter. It bubbled up and through him, seeming to come from some deep, empty place inside him overwhelming his thoughts as they raced through everything that had happened since he left Georgie’s that morning. He felt the first prickling of wetness at the corners of his eyes, and leaned back, the laughter turning thick and wet until it came in ragged gasps, huffing out in big heaving breaths that shook his shoulders and hurt the back of his throat. At least he was still human enough for this, some dark part of him whispered, and at that thought he let the wipe fall from his fingers, reaching to pull his glasses off and let them join the pile of papers on the table. He swallowed deeply around the hysterical sounds still fighting their way up his throat, clasping at the bridge of his nose and trying desperately to focus on the room around him.

Allowing himself one more shaky breath, he wiped at the escaped tear slowly but inevitably tracing its way down his cheek. This wasn’t the time. His boss was an admitted murderer and his answers regarding Jon’s own humanity had not exactly been reassuring. He still didn’t know nearly enough about the Stranger and its apparent ritual, everyone in the Institute was apparently bound to the Eye and Elias in a way Jon wasn’t even sure he fully understood yet, and on top of all of that, he was ruining one of Georgie’s favorite shirts. Again. Jon let out a breath that felt like it took everything in him with it, sniffing before reaching once more for the first aid kit. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the tiny package containing the wipe he needed, suddenly filled with the strongest animosity he’d ever felt for an inanimate object. As he was debating whether or not he might be able to tear it left-handed with his teeth, he heard a quiet knock at the door.

“Erm, Jon?” Martin’s voice was soft, muffled by the heavy wood. “Are you okay? I - I saw that you left Elias’s? And I mean - that was a lot, but I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed kind of, well erm - hurt? Even before everything else?” Jon froze, one hand still hovering over the first aid kit. His mind raced so fast he lost track of what was running through it, barely even registering Martin’s voice as he once again called out through the door.

“Jon? I know you’re in there. Are you okay? Please say something.” Jon let his hand fall to the table, unsettling a stack of files that slid to the floor with a loud thump. He cursed, leaning sharply down to grab at the papers as Martin flung open the door, his face a mess of worry and panic.

“Jon! Oh my god, are you alright?” Jon suppressed a wince as the moment of panic passed and he felt the cut on his neck protest the sudden movement. Meeting Martin’s gaze, however, he did his best to wave it off, sliding onto the floor and gathering the loose stacks of paper into a pile.

“I’m fine, Martin.” His words came out just a touch more frigid than he’d meant them, and he looked quickly back at the floor, ignoring the way his hand twinged in time with the pulse in his neck. With a sigh, he hoisted the stack clumsily back onto his desk, and if he leaned a bit heavier into the wood than was strictly necessary, the angle should hide it from Martin, so that was fine. “Really, I’m alright. Why don’t you go back to your work since it seems we’re all trapped here anyway.” Martin blinked at that, his hands flexing and tightening for a second. Then his eyes were drawn to Jon’s collar, now quite dark and partially covered in hair again already, and his shoulders fell with a sigh.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin swept carefully over to the desk, reaching for the first aid kit as Jon fell back into the chair. “What even happened?” Resisting the urge to pull his sleeve further down over his hands, Jon stared resolutely at the first aid kit, not quite daring to meet Martin’s eyes. There was a long silence as Martin pulled out a full bandage, the offending alcohol wipe, and a roll of gauze that Jon didn’t really think was strictly necessary, but really he was just going to clean it and slap a plaster on it, so Martin probably had the right idea after all. Jon’s spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the sudden quirk of Martin’s brow at his continued silence.

“It doesn’t matter. Everyone -,” He froze for a second, mind replaying the scene in the woods, “- I lived, and there’s no going back and changing what happened now.” Martin stared at him quietly for a few moments, face unreadable and alcohol wipe in hand, until Jon could no longer hold his gaze and his eyes darted back to the desk in front of him. Moving slowly, Martin bent down to look at Jon’s neck, eyebrows twitching upward in concern as he took in the bloody mess before him.

“Alright, Jon,” he murmured, voice held carefully level. “Is this okay?” Jon didn’t trust himself to speak again, so he just swallowed thickly and nodded, eyes fluttering closed for just a second before focusing on a book right on the edge of his desk, very pointedly away from Martin. The other man simply nodded as well and with painstaking care, reached out to gently begin pulling the dirty, damp hair away from Jon’s neck. He couldn’t quite suppress the flinch as Martin’s fingers made contact with the angry, inflamed skin, and the soft sound of reassurance that came from Martin’s lips at the motion nearly brought that gaping, emptiness back to Jon’s chest before he firmly shoved it back down. His attention was focused entirely on that corner of his desk and not at all on the soft feeling of fingers on his skin and the gentle whispers of reassurance he wasn’t even certain Martin knew he was still making.

“Ah. Jon?” Jon blinked, carefully looking at Martin without moving. “Do you have another hair-tie or some bobby pins? You really do need to keep your hair out of this while it’s healing or you’re in for a nasty infection.” Jon simply nodded again, before realizing an actual response was probably needed. His mouth felt suddenly dry and he cleared his throat crisply before pointing at the drawer behind Martin’s knee.

“There should be something in that drawer there.” Martin nodded, reaching behind him to pull open the appropriate drawer before going still.

“Sorry was that the wrong drawer? Maybe the one above?” Jon couldn’t quite see, but it certainly wasn’t out of the question for things to be moved. No doubt the police had conducted a thorough search of his office after he’d vanished if the dust was anything to go by. Martin simply shook his head, seeming to stifle a laugh which seemed rather odd all things considered. Jon simply stared, waiting for him to say something.

“Jon, these are office supplies.” He nodded slowly.

“Yes? I mean, they’re certainly not ideal, but they work in a pinch. A rubber band isn’t all that different from a hair-tie.” At that Martin did finally let out a laugh, and Jon felt a rush of annoyance as his face heated several degrees. Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Martin cut him off with a small wave and another shake of his head.

“No, no, no. It’s okay. It’s fine. Just - just give me a minute.” Martin hesitated for a second, carefully folding a square of gauze in his hand and pressing it to Jon’s neck, grimacing slightly in sympathy with Jon’s own jolt. “Hold that there for now. I’ll be right back.” At that Martin turned and headed quickly out the door, leaving a perplexed Jon behind, staring at the open door for a moment before another twinge of his other hand forced a wince out of him.

Glancing down, he noted the bandages seemed to be yellowing again already and there was a moderately concerning amount of dirt worked into the crisscrossing strips. Georgie really was going to kill him. Gently turning his hand over in his lap and forcibly ignoring the ripple of sharp stinging as he did, he stared blankly at his hand, silently contemplating the benefits of staying at the Institute overnight and delaying that particular lecture versus the potential consequences of spending even more time in such close proximity to Elias and whatever the Eye truly was. Through the crack in the door, he could hear the faint sounds of his coworkers shuffling around the office, no doubt caught up in their own thoughts after that conversation, and he shifted uneasily in his seat, propping his arm on the edge of the desk. His head bobbed wearily forward and his hand bent reflexively around his neck, sending another deep throb through his chin and shoulder.

“Rosie said you owe her a coffee, but she had some extras at her desk,” Martin announced, shaking Jon out of his thoughts with a small jump. In one hand he brandished a small cluster of bobby pins and a plain black hair-tie, his bright eyes dimming only slightly at Jon’s distant expression. Wasting no time, he swung back around the desk, barely avoiding a patch of papers protruding slightly over the edge. As he approached, his eyes suddenly caught on Jon’s right hand, and he froze.

“Jon,” he started as Jon carefully moved his hand back down to his lap, not hiding it, but suddenly all too aware of the filthy bandages. Before Martin could get out another word, he cut him off.

“It’s fine.” Martin’s eyebrow quirked sharply upward, the small frown on his face clearly demonstrating his disbelief, but he didn’t push the issue, instead gently shifting Jon’s fingers to look at the wound on his neck. He didn’t quite manage to hide the sympathetic hiss as he took in the angry purple bruise blooming across Jon’s skin. Carefully swapping the gauze for a fresh one, he once more pressed Jon’s hand firmly against his neck.

“Well, I think if you’re up to it we should probably change those as well.” Martin stilled for a moment, a soft flush creeping up his cheeks as he considered his next words carefully. After a moment, he swallowed. “I - I don’t suppose you’ll be able to pull your - your hair out of the way yourself though - not one-handed at least - Sorry.” He blanched a bit, eyes darting down to his own hands. “If it’s alright with you, I can - I mean I used to for my mum is all.” Jon stilled himself. It’s not that Martin was wrong exactly. He’d only gotten it up this morning with Georgie’s help after all, and keeping it out of the sticky mess that was his coat collar would certainly make her less likely to yell at him when he got back. Martin was still stammering, hands nervously rubbing together as he watched Jon.

“Alright.” Jon’s head dipped slightly and his fingers flexed. “That-” He sighed, the air leaving his lungs in a quick huff. “That would be quite helpful actually.” Martin nodded mutely. His fingers still twisting the hair tie into knots, he nodded again.

“Right. Okay.” Reaching for another wipe, Martin didn’t quite look Jon in the eye as he tore it open, though Jon wouldn’t have noticed anyway, eyes now intently staring at the floor. “I’m just going to get some of the - well - the blood out of your hair first okay?” He didn’t make a move to get closer until Jon glanced quickly at him and nodded once. “Right.” With that he took some of Jon’s hair in his hand, gently wiping at the clumped strands, and Jon let his eyes drift slowly closed. If he leaned slightly into the soft feeling of Martin methodically separating the strands and wiping at the worst of the grime, well he was just a little tired was all.

“So,” Martin’s voice broke through his haze and he blinked, resisting the urge to shake his head. “I guess Basira works here now, too?” Jon let out a sharp laugh at that.

“Yes. Wonderful. Yet another person stuck here doing Elias’s dirty work for the literal God of horrific knowledge and observation. That’s just fantastic.” He waved angrily as he spoke, hissing as his hand made contact with the desk in front of him, the sudden sharp pain jolting all the way up into his shoulder. Jon took a deep breath, settling it back in his lap. “Sorry.” The awful emptiness was creeping into his chest again, exhaustion pressing on his shoulders like a physical weight. “I’m just - I’m just tired.” Jon felt the sick rush of guilt and shame wash over him, though his lips felt glued shut, and he couldn’t bear to look up from the floor.

After an achingly long moment, Martin simply hummed an agreement and went back to work gently pulling his messy hair back and out of his face. Jon’s throat once more felt thick and his eyes prickled with tears he adamantly refused to let fall, once more closing his eyes and fighting the warring urges to flinch away or lean into Martin’s gentle ministrations, forcing himself to stay as still as possible as he pulled Jon’s hair back into a loose bun, carefully pinning the shorter pieces back and out of his face. When he was done, Martin slowly and gently spun the desk chair to face him more fully. Jon felt the gentlest of touches on his injured hand, unable to completely suppress the wince that flickered across his face. Martin sighed.

“It’s okay, Jon. It’s not your fault.” Jon couldn’t contain a sharp bark of surprised laughter at that, eyes snapping open and fixing onto Martin’s.

“Isn’t it? She wouldn’t have even been here if it wasn’t for me.” He leaned back in the chair, tasting the bitter edge of the words as they left his mouth. Martin’s hands hovered above Jon’s as he quietly watched Jon take a serious of shaky breaths, head nodding back as he once more thrust his emotions down as deep as they would go, ignoring the hollow feeling they left behind. Once he was no longer shaking, Martin nodded thoughtfully, carefully reaching for the edge of the gauze keeping Jon’s burn contained.

“What happened while you were gone, Jon?” The bandage was carefully unraveled and discarded behind him.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin to be honest with you,” Jon intoned, voice flat as he stared at the ceiling, only distantly feeling the piercing sting of Martin’s touch being slowly soothed away by the cooling sensation of burn cream.

“Did you at least have somewhere safe to stay?” Martin was carefully settling a new set of bandages across his hand, holding them just firmly enough to not slip and sting, but gently enough that Jon only barely felt the throb of his pulse at the pressure.

“I’m not sure anywhere is safe anymore, Martin. Evidently, Elias can find me at least wherever I seem to go. Did you know he was sending me statements?” Jon hissed as Martin’s thumb pressed down a touch too sharply on his palm, looking down to see a cold, stony expression on the man’s face even as his fingers stroked carefully across the spot, trying to soothe the sting. Loosely gripping Jon’s wrist in place, Martin reached behind to the desk, unwinding a spool of gauze and beginning to wrap it calmly and methodically around each of Jon’s fingers and down around his wrist.

“No. No, I didn’t,” Martin finally said, voice quiet and full of something Jon couldn’t quite place. Tucking the last corner into place and carefully securing it with a small piece of tape, Martin slowly lowered the hand back to Jon’s lap. He looked up and met Jon’s eyes. “None of us knew where you were or what was going on. You just disappeared and then - and then the police were saying you killed someone, and there was no way that could be right, but no one would believe me when I told them. Believe me, if I’d known, I’d have found a way to help.” Jon swallowed as Martin stood up, grabbing another roll of gauze, staring at him with a slight frown creasing his brows.

“Um. This is going to be a bit awkward, but I swear it’s the way you’re supposed to do this. I - well after Prentiss I made sure to look more into first aid, and a lot of it is a bit odd, but it works I swear.” Jon just nodded, hand still pressed against his neck. “Here. Let me just-” The flush started creeping up Martin’s cheeks again as he fumbled at the buttons of Jon’s coat, pushing one arm down around his elbow. Jon frowned a little himself, staring up at Martin with a quizzical expression. Martin ducked his head, not quite meeting Jon’s gaze. He unwrapped one end of the gauze and reached down to lift Jon’s arm. “You don’t want to wrap anything around your neck, so it’s gotta go this way. Sorry, I know it’s a bit awkward, but it’ll just be a minute.”

At that, he reached around Jon’s back, hand sliding up Jon’s shoulder and around to pass the cloth over and around his neck, gently nudging Jon’s hand out of the way. Pulling the edge of his coat through his fingers absently, Jon realized this was probably the closest he’d gotten to a hug in years, maybe even since Georgie dumped him. Martin passed the gauze around his back a few more times, each time half embracing him, and Jon found he didn’t particularly mind the warmth after all. When Martin finally pulled back, tying the fabric off in the front and looking over his work before giving a small approving nod, Jon actually found himself almost mourning the loss.

“Alright there we go. You’ll probably want to get that changed again before you go to sleep.” Martin packed the first aid kit back up, fingers hesitating over the remaining supplies before pulling out some extra gauze and firmly placing it in Jon’s hand and stepping off to the side. “Do you - do you still have somewhere to go? It’s getting quite late, and I can’t imagine you want to stay here after everything.”

“No, I think I’ll actually stay here with our boss the confessed murderer and living heart of the evil fear god-controlled Institute,” Jon snorted, tucking the gauze into his jacket. “No, no, I should be fine. I have someone I was staying with, I just have to give her a call and let her know I’m not dead.” Jon paused, fingers deep in his otherwise empty pocket. “And also apparently let her know I’ll need to get a new cell phone.” He sighed, silent again for a moment. “Thank you, Martin.” The man’s face softened, frown giving way to a gentle smile.

“You’re welcome, Jon. I’ll just leave you to it then?” Jon nodded, reaching for the phone with his good hand, hovering over the receiver for just a moment before thinking better of it and letting his finger rest on the speaker button.

“Yes. I’ll - well I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow then, Martin.” Martin snorted at that.

“I think after all of this,” he gestured loosely at Jon, “if any of us see you in the Institute before you’ve taken at least a few days off, we’re legally allowed to yell at you.” Jon bristled slightly before noting the twinkle in Martin’s eye. The sharp retort died before even reaching his lips and instead he huffed a quiet laugh.

“Okay that’s - that’s fair. I’ll just -” He trailed off, glancing back at the phone. Martin nodded again, moving towards the door.

“Alright, Jon. And get some rest okay? You _really_ should get that hand looked at if you haven’t.” Jon just nodded, not looking up again until he heard the door close softly. Turning his hand over to look at the fresh bandages, Jon’s head spun, the emotions he’d buried overwhelming him for just a moment. Exhaustion rolled over him in waves as he started punching in the familiar numbers for Georgie’s cell phone, and he tried to ignore the soft flutter of warmth flickering in his chest and the last ghostly sensations of fingers tracing over his shoulder.


End file.
